


Shelter

by Ptelea



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Shared Meals, sometimes it's complicated to give comfort, sometimes it's complicated to receive it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptelea/pseuds/Ptelea
Summary: Two safe houses, two nights dealing with the aftermath of fear toxin, multiple conversations, several meals.Written for Sholio's September 2020 Comfort Fest for a prompt from Musesfool. Warning-wise, there's nothing graphic here but there are definitely references to past canon trauma for both the characters.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 49
Kudos: 289
Collections: Hold Me: A Comfort Prompfest





	1. Jason POV

Waking up the morning after fear toxin, Jason always noticed the taste first. He'd brushed his teeth the night before but it'd showed up right on schedule anyway, something different from a hangover or garlic or death. 

Probably more like garlic than death, which was as fucked up and weird as anything in his life.

He stayed still for a moment out of habit, evaluating his surroundings. When he opened his eyes he was where he expected, in one of the Bat network of safe houses, curled up tight on a single cushion at one end of a sofa in the small apartment's living room. He ached all over from sleeping tense, limbs tucked in to make a smaller target. In the chill dawn light coming through the blinds, the fear toxin fully out of his system, that blatant physical admission of terror sent a wash of humiliation through his body. Jason consciously relaxed his jaw at the flare of pain when he gritted his teeth. Eased out his limbs. Watched for a response from the other person in the room.

Dick was in the armchair on the other side of the sofa, legs tossed carelessly over one arm, fucking around on his phone. He didn't stir, which indicated either a stunning lapse in situational awareness--which, Jason had finally fallen asleep because Dick was theoretically standing guard against both outside threats and anything Jason might do under the residual influence, so thanks so fucking much, Dickface--or that he'd clocked Jason waking up before he moved, which meant he'd been paying close enough attention that Jason's skin crawled a bit in response. 

It was a standard part of the aftermath of fear toxin, this feeling like his nerves had been moved to the outside of his skin and sunburned, and Jason hated it.

Dick had changed out of costume sometime while Jason was sleeping--and Jason hadn't registered it and woken up, which made his skin crawl more--into t-shirt and track pants. His face wasn't bruised. His torso probably was, from when he'd tackled Jason to get the antidote into him and Jason had fought back. Dick was sitting easily enough, though, so it couldn't have been too bad; though Dick knew as well as any of them and better than most how to lie with his body to downplay damage while doing the Gotham gala rounds. He could be doing so now, out of habit or because he thought Jason might feel guilty about it. 

Jason didn't. Bruises were a standard occupational hazard and if Nightwing had been able to take down even a fear-gassed, confused Red Hood without some damage that shit would just be embarrassing. But he didn't like it, either. He wanted any marks he left to be intentional. 

When he stood, Dick's eyes did flick towards him. "Morning," Dick said, calm and neutral, and on the one hand a chipper "Good morning, Little Wing!" would have made Jason want to punch him, but on the other hand the way Dick wasn't surprised and was clearly tailoring his mood to Jason's made Jason want to punch him anyway.

"Hey," he said instead, and for a moment more they stared at each other in wary silence. 

"Anything new?" Jason said with a jerk of his chin to Dick's phone.

"Nothing Gotham related," Dick said with a shrug. The other Bats had tracked Scarecrow down not long after Dick and Jason had arrived at the safe house. "You want the celebrity gossip?"

"Nope," Jason said, and they stared at each other some more. Jason crossed his arms defensively, glancing around the apartment. His jacket was still slung on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his guns still out on the table along with Dick's escrima. Dick had insisted on that. He'd let the guns stay in Jason's sight, though, a visual security blanket, and he'd left Jason his knives. He hadn't even asked for them. And yeah, the antidote had kicked in enough by that point that Jason wasn't going to be a purposeful threat to him, and yeah, if Dick had pushed it Jason probably would have grabbed his guns and gone instead of agreeing to a night of monitoring, but Jason found himself suddenly and resoundingly irritated. Fear toxin was experimental and sometimes had unpredictable aftereffects, hence the fucking 12 hours of monitoring, and there was Dick, barefoot and weaponless and comfily ensconced in a chair with celebrity gossip, and still apparently full of confidence that he would be able to handle whatever Jason threw at him.

It made Jason want to throw something at him.

Dick was sitting straighter now, and the wariness in his eyes had grown, which sent a flare of visceral satisfaction up Jason's spine even as it made something else in his stomach shrivel. Dick was waiting, Jason knew, probably not for a physical blow but for Jason to pick a fight, to try to shred Dick's composure in retaliation for seeing Jason vulnerable and scared. The part of Jason that felt like his nerves had been run over by a cheese grater wanted to oblige. 

He would have not so long ago, he knew. Picked a verbal or physical fight, or left in the middle of the night because he never would have gone to sleep, or never agreed to monitoring in the first place. He'd gone for that option once in a similar situation, not fear toxin but something unknown, not long into the truce. He'd walked away and ignored Nightwing saying, "Just...text me to give me an all clear tomorrow, then," and then ditched Gotham for a month and burned the number he'd been using; and felt meanly glad at the thought of Dick waiting and worrying. (Or maybe not, who fucking knew, maybe relieved that Jason wasn't his problem for a while.)

Part of Jason wanted a fight, and part of Jason didn't want to be predictable like a kid throwing a tantrum when he hadn't gotten a nap, and part of Jason...part of Jason wanted to go back three minutes, before he'd stood up, when he'd had a bad taste in his mouth and sore muscles, but the light coming through the blinds had indicated that there might be sun today, and Dick had been quiet and relaxed and felt no threat in Jason's presence. That moment when Dick hadn't been expecting Jason to try to hurt him. 

They stared at each other, and Dick opened his mouth to say something that would probably tip things in the wrong direction, and Jason blurted, "I'm going to take a shower," and walked out of the room.

There were clothes and a variety of toiletries in the linen closet near the bathroom, along with towels. Dick was the primary user of this safe house and the one who checked its defenses and kept it stocked, but it was still nominally a family safe house, so the clothes were of varying sizes. Jason grabbed a t-shirt in his size, underwear, socks. They could have been meant for Bruce, but the toiletries shelf held Jason's brands of deodorant and shampoo, which was both creepy and comforting, par for the course with this fucked-up family. 

He only glanced at his face in the bathroom mirror. Pale face, tired eyes, downturned mouth. Calmer than he felt. Calmer than he'd looked last night, when he'd washed his face and brushed his teeth and flicked quick glances up from the sink when he couldn't help it, to make sure the mirror didn't show anyone or anything behind him. Dick had offered a change of clothes last night, Jason hazily remembered, but the thought of stripping bare for even a moment had been impossible.

Taking off the layer of body armor now felt good. The t-shirt beneath it stunk; Jason kicked it in the corner, away from his jeans and boots he'd wear home. The hot water felt glorious and soothing on several layers, tamping down some of the spikiness from this morning. It had been a shit night and he was actively avoiding thinking of the worst of it, but--he was okay. He'd been through this before and the worst was past and he could deal. 

Hell, he even had the familiar smells of his own shampoo and soap, which, when he thought about it more, what the fuck? Possibly Alfie's doing? Jason had to admit to curiosity about whether there'd been some actual directive that had gone out, and when in the truce it had taken place, about the logistical shit like this. "Please be aware that Master Jason now has access to the following safe houses and prefers one of the following brands of toothpaste." Was there going to come a day when he'd get a missive from Alfred: "Regarding your safe house on Elm," (known to the family, not far from four of the regular patrol routes, had already been used as an impromptu refuge by Cass and Steph just a couple weeks ago), "would you consider perhaps adding the following products to your linen closet?" And he probably would. Fuck.

Hell, he should go ahead and tell Steph that one was okay for her to use. Crime Alley kid solidarity. Jason hadn't minded when Cass and Steph showed up, got on fine with Steph and wanted her to have options. He should send her a text later on, tell her he was restocking Elm and ask if there was something he was supposed to add to his list if she and Cass were going to gate crash. She'd read through the lines to welcome.

Looking back, they'd been closer to Elm than to here, last night. Jason had been too out of it to weigh in, but it was a little surprising that Dick hadn't brought him there, unless he'd made a calculation that whatever calm Jason would get from being in one of his own spaces would be outweighed by having an outsider there. If so, he was...probably right, but the calculation might be closer than Dick realized. 

Jason didn't want to think too closely on that, so he shoved it down. Hot water and cleanness and rolling out his shoulders. Clean socks. 

When he got out, Dick had his own neat stack of clothes waiting, saying, "I'm gonna take a turn," on a wide yawn. He'd left the TV on. 

There was an opening for Jason to say casually that he was going to head out, but Jason missed the chance when the bathroom door shut. He could still leave. Dick might be expecting him to. It'd avoid awkward goodbyes and Jason trying to force out a thank you and a possible argument. It was kind of a jerk move to leave the safe house when Dick wouldn't know he was alone and undefended, but Jason could hang around quietly for 20 minutes or so outside to make sure no one went in. 

Instead, though he settled his guns in their holsters and put his pack of clothes and helmet by the door for an easy exit later, he stayed. Checked his phone, flipping through e-mails and Gotham news sites and the other Bat reports from last night. Felt a resurgence of prickly irritation at Nightwing's bare bones report, mixed with a relief at its sparseness that irritated him further.

When Jason heard the shower go off, he considered a quick getaway again, but went to the kitchen instead. He probably wouldn't be able to spit out thanks in words, so breakfast would have to do. Because the thing was, he still felt an uprush of humiliated resentment that Dick had seen him defenseless, but he also knew he owed Dick, because riding out the aftermath of fear toxin on your own was a fucking nightmare in itself. The obligation of gratitude felt like a poisonous brick in his stomach--Jason didn't do well with debts--but there was a thread of warmth there too. Dick had gotten him the antidote promptly, and gotten them to safety, and disarmed himself so Jason would feel safer. He hadn't insisted on going to the Cave, just sat with Jason and watched endless hours of the Great British Baking Show until Jason unwound enough to get a few hours sleep, and he hadn't pried or urged Jason to talk about what he was afraid of. 

For all that it'd been a bad night, it had also been the easiest come down Jason had ever had from fear toxin. 

So, whatever, that was probably worth breakfast. Jason checked the cabinets and the fridge and was mildly surprised to find sufficient ingredients for pancakes. He wasn't hungry but maybe the smell would spark something; Dick had heated up pasta for himself last night and gone through half a bag of popcorn, but Jason had refused food and Dick hadn't pushed it. He started pulling out what he needed, lining it up neatly on the kitchen counter. Pancakes wouldn't take long to cook and it would balance the scales somewhat and he knew it'd mean something to Dick, not just the food but if Jason stuck around and made casual conversation with him for a half-hour without picking a fight. And then Jason could go, and put the whole thing behind him, and not have to think about what he'd seen under the influence, or...the other part he was cringing away from remembering.

Dick's footsteps made sound walking towards the kitchen, which probably wasn't a condescending concession to Jason's current jumpiness so much as a general habit when Dick walked up behind any vigilante. That he stopped at the border to the kitchen instead of coming closer, though, that was a concession. Jason gritted his teeth, surveying the ingredients in front of him, and felt embarrassment clog his throat. Dick had been respectful of his space all night, more so than usual, except when it had been necessary.

Tackling Jason down to get the antidote into him. Then restraining him until it kicked in, so he wouldn't flee into the night and walk off a building or start a shooting spree at shadows. Necessary, and Jason knew it wasn't fair that he was blaming Dick for it. But blame was easier than remembering the most humiliating part of the whole debacle, how he'd fought the shadowy shape coming at him but folded the second Nightwing had gotten close enough to punch the needle in. Some teenage pre-death response, no doubt, another fucked-up legacy from B--from the days when if you were terrified out of your mind, a pinprick and the smell of reinforced leather and sweat meant safety and hold still. Nightwing had caged him in to keep him from running, and Jason hadn't fought it at all; he'd turned into it, held still and made himself small and breathed in comfort until his head cleared.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jason felt his face and neck flush red, pain in his jaw and neck and shoulders, all the ease of the shower gone. 

"What's all this?" Dick asked behind him. His voice was--probably carefully--light, and Jason felt a flash of pure and blinding rage. This condescending shithead. 

He pushed it down. He'd worked at this, at getting past their teenage bullshit and meeting Dick on equal terms. His voice still sounded wrong and flat and angry when he forced out, "I was thinking pancakes."

"Oh, man, pancakes?" Dick said. When Jason swung around to face him, breathing harder than he should be, Dick was leaning against the wall, and his eyes were warier than his body or his voice. "That sounds awesome, but any chance I can get a raincheck?" He waved his phone. "I've got something I should be doing."

Jason squinted. Dick's phone seemed to be showing some kind of zoo cam of a baby giraffe, so that was a total lie. Or more likely a truth with a dishonest implication (they were vigilantes and always had something they should be doing, but he doubted it had to be now). Dick offering him a reprieve was more condescending bullshit and tipped things further out of balance but the part of Jason that was raw and tender didn't care: he took the out. "Yeah, whatever, I'm out of here, then," he said, turning back around and returning things to their places with transparent haste.

"Sure," Dick said, and the feeling of him watching just made Jason's shoulders go further up towards his ears despite a larger feeling of relief. He was almost done with this. There was a pause, and then Dick said in a rush, "But don't forget to eat something because you didn't eat anything last night, and food helps!"

Jason stilled and glanced at him. Dick's face had the puckered-lemon expression of someone who hadn't been able to resist blurting out something they knew they shouldn't. Jason probably should be even more pissed, but he felt a glimmer of amusement instead. After a couple blow-out fights, Dick had cut way down on the more obnoxious bits of big-brother behavior that, Jason had snarled at him, he sure as hell hadn't earned. This was a setback, but Dick's discomfiture made it worth it. "Yeah, yeah," Jason said with a dismissive wave. "I'll grab something later." He snagged his jacket and shrugged it on, and the weight of it settled something in his stomach. "See you," he said, heading towards the door, and he didn't look back.

Wan sunlight and a chilly day. There weren't a lot of people on the streets, and Jason took long strides, letting the fresh air blow the final mental cobwebs away and letting the sound of his own boots on the pavement ground him in a rhythm. It might have been a bad night, but he'd gotten a couple of hours of sleep under his belt and was wearing clean socks and hadn't irrevocably fucked up the current truce; he'd had worse. By the time he reached his own safe house, he was ravenous. 

He made oatmeal, stirring in milk carefully, pulling out brown sugar and cinnamon. It smelled homey and warm. He made tea and breathed in the steam and it smelled like Alfred's kitchen. This apartment had a dinky little balcony too shallow for a chair, so Jason propped open the balcony door and settled on the floor just inside with his bowl and his mug and a pack of cigarettes, stretching out his legs onto the balcony. After two bites, and without thinking too hard about it, he snapped a picture of the bowl and the mug and texted it to Dick. 

Dick sent a smiley face emoji in response a minute later, which made Jason roll his eyes. When his phone vibrated again a moment later, he rolled them again. He'd sent that text to close the connection with some modicum of grace, not open one. "I lucked out," the second one said, and it was accompanied by a selfie, Dick in civilian clothes with an empanada in one hand and a grin on his face. 

And goddamnit, that was Lucia's food truck in the background, and now that she'd retired she only went out once a week and never with warning. "Dammit," Jason said out loud. 

For about thirty seconds, he actually considered telling Dick to get him some and come over, or more realistically trekking back himself, but he finally felt like he was breathing deep again, in his own space with his balcony and his oatmeal and tea. Honestly, if babysitting Jason for the night had put Dick in the position to get Lucia's, that probably wiped out some of the debt. He'd go over to Dick's apartment at some point in a couple weeks, give him something on a case that connected to his and make him some pancakes, and keep whatever inevitable argument they had down to a squabble. Having a plan in his head let Jason slot it away.

Right now--it'd been a bad night, but Jason was safe and he had food. He'd text Steph later and stock up on purple toothbrushes, and he felt a curl of warmth at the thought. But there was no rush. Right now, he had a little bit of time and space to sit in the sun and drink tea. His mouth didn't taste like fear toxin anymore, just cinnamon and oatmeal, and all he had to do, right now, was eat it before it got cold.


	2. Dick's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months later, another night of aftermath

Morning came around, eventually. Dick didn't think he'd gone deeper than a doze all night. He'd tried, partly because he'd felt that Jason wouldn't rest until he did and partly because being unconscious for a while seemed like it would be a release. But he'd been fidgety, his skin prickling between hot and cold, and he couldn't seem to sit still. All standard for him, after a dose of fear gas, and all horrible.

This particular safe house had two recliners in its living room, and it had been reassuring to look across and see Jason through the course of the night--Jason! alive and well and here and reading some book on his phone!--it was astonishing! But Dick knew he himself had been a nuisance, changing positions, getting up to pace and shake out his arms a few times. He'd gone into the kitchen area for a while, to burn off some energy doing push ups without bugging Jason, but after ten minutes Jason had padded over to stare at Dick on the kitchen floor and say, "You playing with knives in here or something?" 

He'd said it lightly but with enough weight to it that Dick had realized that, right, if he were monitoring someone for fear toxin aftereffects and they disappeared to be very quiet in a room full of sharp objects, that would be cause for alarm. "Sorry," he'd murmured, returning meekly to the other room. Jason had put on the TV without comment, and kindly not said anything when Dick had settled not back into the chair but onto the floor to do stretches. 

"You want to try to sleep again?" he'd asked at the dawn hour, quietly, when Dick had returned to the chair and settled under a throw because he was feeling cold. Dick was pretty sure he was asking genuinely, that he'd roll with it if Dick said no, the way he'd been rolling with Dick's reactions with astonishing patience all night. Still, Dick had nodded obediently and closed his eyes and tried not to feel the sting of being a burden. Jason had gotten stuck with him because Bruce and Alfred and Damian were in London on a Wayne Enterprises / Brucie trip, and everyone else was busy, and--Dick was grateful, of course he was, he was glad and amazed that they had gotten to the point of being part of each other's safety net, but this all would have been easier if it were something physical. 

It was obvious that Jason had picked up something about the shape of some of Dick's past damage from his reactions, and that was deeply uncomfortable, even if Jason had navigated around it with a carefulness that Dick was both surprised by and grateful for. It wasn't that he hadn't known that Jason was capable of it but he hadn't expected it to be directed at him.

He'd stewed in silence for a bit, but eventually calm had settled over him and it had become easier to rest, to sit with his eyes closed and breathe. Jason got up sometime after the sun had risen, and Dick heard him puttering about in the bathroom. When he returned to the living room Dick kept his eyes closed, not really feigning sleep but--well, Jason had done his duty last night, might want to leave quietly now. But Jason came near, crouching near the chair until Dick opened his eyes.

"I'm going to run out and get something for breakfast, I'll be back in 20. You want pancakes or muffins?" He looked tired but not exhausted, calm and solid and present and real. Dick flinched at the sight of the bruise on his chin. It wasn't large. Jason moved fast and Dick had not been at the top of his game, to put it mildly; he'd only clipped Jason a bit. But he felt guilty nonetheless, as it could have been avoided.

The dose Dick had gotten hadn't been high and it hadn't been as fast acting as it could have been; Dick had been able to subdue Scarecrow, call the cops, take a sample, get to the relative safety of a nearby rooftop, and call Babs to ask her to send reinforcements before it really kicked in. But he'd been terrified out of his mind by the time he'd seen Hood coming towards him, and Jason had taken off his helmet so he'd be less scared. It had worked to some extent, gotten Dick reoriented to the situation and what was happening, and he'd nodded when Jason asked if he could give him the antidote. Stayed still and held out his arm obediently, except when Jason had gotten within arm's reach, something had tripped and Dick had made an ugly sound of distress and swung out in pure terrified reflex. Leaped back and gasped, "Sorry, sorry, sorry" as he came back to himself. In the end Jason had handed over the syringe so he could administer the dose himself. "Sorry," he murmured again now.

Jason shook his head. "None of that. Pancakes or muffins?"

"You know you don't need to make--" Dick started out of a sense of obligation.

Jason rolled his eyes and said, not unkindly, "Nope. Shut your trap. Pancakes or muffins?"

Jason could be stubborn as a rock, Dick thought with sudden fondness, and smiled. "What kind of muffins?" Jason made excellent pancakes, had made them a few months ago as some kind of bizarre and unnecessary gesture after Dick had done the monitoring thing for him (easy, Jason had had the good sense to fall asleep for most of it), and it had made for an awkward and touchy but extremely tasty brunch. 

"What kind of muffins do you want?" Jason asked.

"Chocolate chip?" Dick suggested. It had worked for the pancakes.

Jason rolled his eyes and said, "You have the palette of a child," as he stood up. He frowned at Dick's bare feet and flicked the throw back down to cover them, careful to telegraph his moves and not to touch Dick's feet. "But fine. Back in 20."

Dick liked having his feet free while he slept and was getting up anyway, but he waited until Jason had left to kick away the throw and smiled a little even as he blinked back tears. The aftermath of fear toxin usually left Dick's emotions running high--there was doubtless something in Bruce's notes about "prone to emotional lability"--but in the calm of the morning it wasn't as horrible a thing. Jason being cautious with him caused a little lick of shame, but that small act of Alfred-style pragmatic care was also a gift that warmed him through. 

He'd showered by the time Jason came back. "What'd you buy?" he asked, sorting through the bags while Jason irritably waved him back. "Oh, eggs, do you want me to make scrambled?"

"Good God, no, I want you to leave this kitchen," Jason said. "I am making omelettes and there will be vegetables in them--" Dick was pulling out mushrooms and spinach and tomato as brilliant proof, "--and you are going to like it."

Dick shrugged. "I mean, you're cooking it, so yeah?" The tips of Jason's ears went slightly pink and he sent Dick a warning look that Dick ignored. "But for the record, I make good scrambled eggs!" He backed obediently away from the counter when Jason shooed him again.

Jason snorted. "Maybe," he said while he started pulling out bowls and pans and spatulas. "I have corroboration that you make edible scrambled eggs, I guess."

Dick cocked his head.

"Was at a diner with Tim where he got crap eggs and he said 'even Dick can make better.' Not sure that's much of a vote of confidence, but sure, congratulations, you can make one edible dish, now lemme work."

"I can make more than that," Dick said. Sulked. Jason hmm'ed and ignored him. Dick stayed in the door for a moment, watching his back, and felt an uprush of affection and delight. He sort of wanted to go over and plaster himself to Jason's back and squeeze the stuffing out of him. It was amazing all over again: Jason, here and alive and grown into a solid rock of a man with a protective streak a mile wide. That he intermittently applied even to Dick.

Even though they were on decent terms now, Jason still sometimes tried to use his greater height and weight as a goad. Proof that he'd won some competition between them, even though at this point he had to realize that Dick didn't care. He probably attributed Dick's cheerful lack of response to the fact that most acrobats ran relatively short and lean, which was part of it, but the other part of it was simply that when Jason loomed now, Dick always felt the urge to coo at him and say, "Oh my god you grew up so tall!" and fling himself at him to reassure himself that Jason was here, and alive, and bigger than that goddamned coffin.

He had a feeling he'd given some of that away last night, too, which was fine; Dick was pretty sure that Jason's defensive shell automatically dismissed at least half of Dick's efforts at friendship as insincere manipulation, and maybe last night had at least chipped away at that. They'd sat quietly and cross-legged on the roof waiting for the antidote to kick in a bit more, while Dick wrestled with completing impulses, one to run away and scour his skin in the hottest shower he could find, and the other to stay close to Jason, who was alive and well and here. Eventually Dick had said in a wobbly voice, "Can I--?"

"Sure, of course," Jason had said, and scooted closer; he'd probably thought Dick was asking for a hug. He'd stopped and gone blank when Dick had flinched and scooted back. When Dick had reached out over the distance between them to grab onto Jason's wrist, fingers pressed over his pulse point, Jason's pulse had jumped and then steadied into a fast beat, his face almost bewildered. They'd sat there for a while with Dick leaning over to bridge the foot of space he'd still needed to keep between them, and Jason had never quite lost the look of puzzlement.

Dick would hug Jason now if he stayed, which would probably be too much and poor thanks, so Dick wandered away. Checked his phone and smiled at the texts he'd gotten last night in response to a somewhat plaintive text that was a bit embarrassing in the cold light of day, a request for selfies. Proof of life from those he loved who were still alive. Damian had dutifully sent one of himself scowling in the gray London morning, and candids of Bruce and Alfred looking glum and mildly exasperated, respectively. Various Bat shots of patrol locations and computer screens and, from Steph, a page in a college textbook. There were new ones from her and Cass this morning. Cass's included the nail polish emoji, and Steph's clarified that he was invited to Steph's for pre-patrol pedicures this evening if he wanted, which he very much did.

Dick did some morning stretches and yoga in the living room, letting himself breathe into them and find the balance in each pose. Good smells were beginning to waft out from the kitchen, and he was hungry. His stomach had been too upset to eat last night, and of course there'd been the vomiting. 

The memory of that made his muscles lock up. Last night, they'd sat at arm's length distance for a while, Dick's fingers on Jason's wrist, until Dick had felt up to moving to the safe house, and Jason had said carefully, "You got it or you want me to swing you down?"

And Dick had been shaking enough that he'd been responsible and said, "If you wouldn't mind," and he'd managed to step in towards Jason without hesitation, and he'd managed the downward swoop with Jason's arm around him without pushing away or even stiffening up too obviously, and he'd managed, when they'd reached street level, to step away instead of leaping back, and then he'd even managed exactly two more measured steps away before he'd bent over and thrown up everything in his stomach. 

He'd managed to straighten up and swipe at his mouth and say, "Sorry about that! Do not recommend roller coasters and rappelling on this version of fear toxin!" but in retrospect Jason had probably catalogued that moment of obvious touch aversion, too.

Dick redirected that line of thought. Breathed. Moved into a handstand and let his thoughts go blank for a while before something from the internet flitted through his mind and he thought, "why not try?"

"Why are you doing some kind of burlesque show in the middle of the living room?" Jason said flatly, when Dick was about midway through pulling the sweatpants he was wearing off with his toes.

"Handstand pants removal challenge!" Dick said. Jason's disapproval was hilarious. It wasn't like he didn't have on underwear. "Simone Biles started it, check the internet."

"Sorry to break it to you, but you are not nearly as awesome as Simone Biles," Jason said, even as Dick, ha, discarded his sweatpants from the tip of his toes and shifted his weight to a single hand. Ta da!

"You say that like it's an insult and not just the way of the world," Dick said, flipping to his feet.

Jason was watching him with exasperation and more reluctant affection than he usually showed. "Put your pants back on, you goober. Food's ready."

It was, and it was good: warm chocolate chip muffin, omelette stuffed with good things. Dick made appreciative noises that Jason waved away but looked pleased at. "So you claim you can cook things," he said when Dick had scarfed down muffin one and was savoring a second one and its melty chocolate. "Name five things you can make to a better-than-edible level and I'll even do the dishes. And not just heating up pre-cooked things."

Jason mostly had done the dishes already--apparently he was a person who cleaned up as he went--and Dick wouldn't mind doing them at all, but he still made an agreeable noise. "Are you allowing me the scrambled eggs?" he asked.

"Five other things," Jason said.

Dick pouted. "Fine. One, lasagna. You can confirm with Babs. It was a whole thing, we tried some recipes and cooked together--"

"Joint recipes where you probably let Barbara do all the work don't count."

"We liked one of the recipes and I've made it myself, solo, since then!" Dick said. "It's not that hard, okay, it's mostly chopping and assembly."

Jason narrowed his eyes and texted someone, presumably Babs. "Maybe, what else?"

Dick grinned at him and felt another spike of affection. This was a far nicer morning than he usually had after fear toxin, and so much nicer than when he had to do it alone. "Chili," he said firmly. "I usually make it a few times in the fall or winter. Tim's eaten the leftovers once or twice, I think." Dick didn't like to cook, mostly, but occasionally he got a taste for something warm and filling, and he liked the little ritual of adding toppings, stirring in green onions and sour cream and cheese. 

Another text sent out, and a ding. Jason raised his eyebrows. "Apparently your lasagna is acceptable." Another ding. "And, huh, I am informed that for a guy who's usually a disaster in the kitchen, you make surprisingly good chili. So that's two."

Dick huffed. "Not a disaster. Um, what else." It wasn't like he was completely hopeless in the kitchen, but he was pretty sure Jason wasn't going to count pasta and jarred sauce and parmesan cheese as a recipe, or grilled cheese even if Dick did sometimes add tomato and, once, two kinds of cheese. "Oh, three, I've made vegetarian chili for Damian."

"Uh, no. Variations on a--"

"No, it counts! It's not just a substitution, it's a completely different recipe, different spices and proportions and the vegetarian one doesn't have any chocolate, which the meat one does. It's totally different." Dick had made it that long year, on days when Alfred was off or busy with other things than meals, and really it hadn't been the same recipe at all except for being warm and filling, and making the kitchen smell like someone cared for him, even if that someone was himself.

"Eh, two and a half," Jason said.

"You're not going to have to verify with Damian?" Dick sniped.

"Yeah, no point, he's not going to criticize something you made for him," Jason said. "I mean, he'd have told you if he found it substandard, I'm sure, but he's not going to bitch about it to me."

Dick grinned. True. "Okay, so what else counts as half a recipe? Grilled cheese? Diners do them, it has to count."

Jason considered. "I'll allow it," he decided. "So you're at a solid three."

"I did once roast a turkey," Dick said. "It was only once, but it was twenty-five pounds, and it turned out amazing. It should count."

"Teen Titans?"

"Teen Titans potluck thanksgiving," Dick confirmed. "I drew the turkey straw. And I'm not saying I did any of the fancy brining stuff, but--"

"Are you trying to get me not to count it? Hell, I'll give it to you for being a teenager who resisted the temptation to deep fry it and see if it would set off a fire." Well. That had happened the year Dick had only been charged with bringing a can of cranberry sauce. He must have looked shifty, because Jason said, "Jesus Christ," in deep tones of disgust.

"I'm not saying it didn't happen, I'm just saying it wasn't me, my turkey turned out splendidly," Dick said primly.

"Yeah, yeah, what's your fifth?" Jason said.

What was coming to mind was not just his, and Dick bit his lip. "Um, promise not to tease Damian about this?"

"Sure?" Jason said. "Okay, now I'm curious."

"No, just, when he came here none of the tabbouleh in stores or shops tasted quite right to him, I guess, so he started trying to make his own--"

"Jesus, of course I wouldn't tease him for that," Jason said, immediate and defensive.

"No, I know, just--" Dick shrugged helplessly. He hadn't meant to hurt Jason, but he couldn't apologize for being protective of Damian and his vulnerabilities, and Jason let out a huff and waved him on. "Anyway, I played sous chef enough that by the time he found something that worked for him I could do it myself. Have."

Had, once or twice, when Damian had been gone, and then thrown it out after two or three bites. He frowned down at his plate, at the memories, his mood suddenly plummeting. The other side of the aftermath of fear toxin. He frowned harder when his plate was taken away. 

"Five dishes, fair and square," Jason said, curiously gentle. His hand hovered for a moment, as if he was waiting for permission or a flinch, before he touched Dick's shoulder lightly.

Dick bit his lip and watched Jason move to the sink. Wondered what Jason had read in his face, just then. The sudden sense of exposure was acute. Dick looked away. Mostly Jason had just been watching him carefully last night and this morning. Not with pity, which was a relief. He hadn't pried, which was more of one. 

"That's good, that Damian makes that," Jason said, turning on the sink and drawing Dick from his thoughts. "That he has that connection. You, uh, none of your dishes were...do you have anything from the circus like that?" 

His voice was tentative but kind. Jason was kind, in general. When he was mean, it was from defensiveness, not for the fun of it. This was deeper than their conversations normally got, and Dick could deflect, but Jason had sat with him through the night and cooked him breakfast, and Dick wanted to think of his parents not as he'd thought of them last night but as they'd been in life. 

"Not really?" he said. "We traveled so much and in so many regions that there were always different foods. There were things my mom and dad made regularly, but they weren't...cultural, I guess? Like, we would have beef stew or goulash, but it was made with whatever was on hand, not something that was always made the same way each time." If there had been particular family recipes, Dick hadn't been aware of them. "Um, olives," he said, and cleared his throat. "My mom liked--we didn't always sit down for dinner, she liked food you could leave out and snack on. Olives, pretty much always." Salt to replace salt lost in sweat. "Nuts, dates, raisins, stuff like that. Little bits of salami, I don't know."

It made him smile to remember it. He got to his feet, grabbed a dish towel and started drying and putting things away. "My mom liked clementines," Jason mused quietly to the sink. "Those little oranges. She'd buy one and we'd split it." 

He looked suddenly sideways at Dick, sharp and fierce and defensive. "That sounds good," Dick said, aching for him, for them both.

"I guess," Jason said, shortly, as if he regretted the confidence.

Dick considered, and discarded, several sets of words to get back to the easier rapport of a moment ago. Eventually, since Jason had always handled Dick's vulnerabilities better than his own, he stopped trying to find the right words to say about Catherine and said quietly, "I miss campfire fish. From the circus. Two of the roustabouts, we'd go back to the same locations and they knew the location of lakes nearby. They couldn't get enough to feed the whole circus, that'd deplete the stock and give us a bad reputation, but they caught a few for themselves and then a few more that they'd share. There was a whole rotation for it. And we'd put it in foil over the fire with some oil and spices, and it was simple but also amazing. I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't taste the same anymore."

The Graysons had turned up in the rotation more than they probably should have, because of Dick. "Fish meat makes good muscles, and this little one needs to build muscles!" Jakob had said, flexing his bicep, and Dick had flexed his in turn, and it was mostly the stale aftertaste of fear toxin that made Dick wonder wearily if Jakob had known about the Talons. 

At the sink, Jason laughed, a short "huh" accompanied by a dismissive headshake.

It landed in a raw place. "What?" Dick said, and he expected it to come out snippy but it came out hurt instead.

Jason turned at that. The water was off and he snagged the towel from Dick to dry his hands. His face was rueful, more open than Dick expected. "Nah, it's not--that's a good memory, it's good that you have it. Just, uh--" he scrubbed at the back of his head, "we grew up in really different places, I guess? It's not like anyone's going to try fresh-caught fish from Gotham Harbor, are they. It's one of the things I remember from those first days at the manor, the food was so different. I remember having this 'what am I doing here' freakout the day Alfred made salmon, and I had, like, no frame of reference." 

He leaned back against the sink, his mouth quirked up. "It wasn't like he left the head or tail on, but there was still, just, this fucking giant slab of fish on my plate, like--" he was gesturing expansively and actually smiling a little, "fish came from a can, okay? It came in a can, in little chunks, you mixed it with pasta or mayo if you were lucky enough to have some. Or there were fish sticks, maybe, if you were in a place with a freezer and the power hadn't gone out again. There weren't giant slabs of whatever the fuck with capers on the side, not like I knew what those were either. And I'm not saying it's a bad thing to get a chance to try a lot of different kinds of food, but it was kind of a shock to the system. And here you are with your olives and your fresh-caught fish."

Dick smiled back. "Okay, but! The first time I sat down and saw fish sticks on my plate, did I know what they were? No, I did not."

"I'm calling bullshit on that, no way did Alfred Pennyworth ever serve you frozen fish sticks from a box."

"Alfred wasn't the only one who fed me!"

"Yeah? Where'd you get fish sticks then? Please tell me it was B and Alfred found out."

Shit, he'd walked himself into this one. Laughter gone. Ugh, the emotional volatility of fear toxin sucked. Did Jason even know this part of his history? It had marked Dick deeply, he knew that, the fear and uncertainly of those weeks, but he didn't like to talk about it. "Oh. Um. You knew I didn't go to Bruce immediately, right? He needed to get approved for foster care and stuff? So there was a gap of a few weeks, and they didn't have any openings in family foster care, so."

Jason's face went somber. He knew Gotham's inadequate child protection system. "Fuck. You poor kid."

It could have been condescending, but Jason said it rough and kind. "I was okay," Dick said. "Lucky, really, comparatively." People had been unkind, literally every single person he'd met had been unkind. The kids made sense to him now but even as an adult, he felt a tide of baffled hurt at the petty cruelty of the grown-ups. But he'd been spared from the worst of it, he knew. He shrugged and said, "Anyway. My introduction to bad institutional food! Including bad institutional fish sticks."

"Yikes," Jason said. 

He seemed to be willing to return to shallower waters, so Dick added lightly, "Also, for the record, Alfred never gave me fish sticks but he absolutely gave me chicken nuggets that came premade in a bag."

"I'm not sure I believe that," Jason teased. "You seem to believe it yourself, I'm not saying you're lying, but maybe there was some head trauma or something."

"Hand to God," Dick said. "When I first went to the manor, I think he and Bruce had read a parenting magazine or talked to the Gotham nannies or maybe the social worker about what kids my age ate." Also he'd come to them tagged with a "picky / reluctant eater" label from the facility, which had had everything to do with grief and nothing to do with actual pickiness. He had hazy memories of later finding a pamphlet with recommendations. "For the first two weeks it was solid PB & J sandwiches, chicken nuggets, and ravioli. The ravioli was homemade, though. I think someone had recommended Chef Boyardee and he couldn't bring himself to do it."

"That's a relief. So, what, you went to your first gala and started eating everything in sight and they realized?"

Dick blinked. An accurate guess. "There'd been something planned for the manor before I arrived, and I think they thought it'd cause more gossip to cancel it. I didn't have to go to the gala but I was wandering around during setup and there was someone on the catering staff who started feeding me. I think she told Alfred they were lucky I was an adventurous eater. He sat me down and asked the next day, what I liked and didn't like." He'd told Alfred about the olives, and had a good cry. He could be misremembering but he thought that was the first time he'd hugged Alfred, been rocked back and forth and then briskly offered tea.

Jason's face softened at the mention of Alfred. "Yeah, okay, that's sweet, but. Thanks a fucking lot. Because I'm pretty sure that's why I got thrown right in the deep end. Fucking capers on my third day in the manor."

"Sorry?" Dick thought about it. "How you felt about the fish, that was how I felt the first time we had steak," he finally said. "Growing up we had meat, but it was mostly cured stuff that traveled well. Or little pieces cut up in stews or casseroles, you know? A little went a long way. We ate a lot of hard-boiled eggs for cheap protein. Like, a lot. And then at the manor it was just--" he measured out a square with his hands, probably exaggerated. 

Jason snorted. "--giant slab of cow on a plate. Yeah, I think that freakout was my second week there."

"It was different," Dick acknowledged. "I guess we all had our things. Poor Alfred." 

"Eh, we all came around to his ways, mostly. But the fish thing. You didn't go with your friends, later? Or the younger Bats? Or...I know you went camping with B, too, did he make you throw the fish back even though you knew what to do?"

Dick thought about it. He'd been pretty aggressive with both Tim and Damian about trying to do fun stuff they hadn't gotten to do previously, but Tim wasn't outdoors-y and Damian was vegetarian. Besides, sometimes it was easier to keep something as a happy memory than try to share it with someone who wouldn't get the import of it. Who'd humor you. "Not really. Besides, I know--knew, anyway--how to cook fish, not necessarily how to catch them," he said. They'd said he could only join them when he could stop wriggling like a fish himself. "And B and I did outdoor training but we always brought food along; I don't think we ever fished." 

The ripple of surprise in Jason's face made Dick realize, "You did?" Which--was good, of course. Jason had deserved nice things back then. It still caused a twinge of hurt, but that was probably just the lingering aftereffects of the fear toxin. It wasn't like Bruce could do every single activity with every single kid.

"Couple times," Jason said. "We threw the fish back. You didn't miss much. It was a training exercise, mostly."

"Living off the land?" Dick asked. He wanted to protest; he was sure there had been more to that, to Bruce, but him arguing always made Jason dig in more. He hoped that flash of hurt and jealousy he'd felt hadn't shown, that Jason wasn't downplaying a good memory to make him feel better.

Jason shrugged. "Staying still, I think. Practicing for stakeouts." A flash of amusement. "Actual quote: Criminals are like fish, Jay. Hearing an unexpected sound will make them dart away." He said the last in Batman register, and Dick cracked up.

Then cracked up further when he remembered something. "Hey, Jay," he said, and went for his own Batman rendition because it was funnier that way. "Why else are fish like criminals?"

Jason buried his face in his hands. "Whatever you're about to say, please don't."

"Because they're both gill-ty!" He beamed at Jason, purposefully over the top and ridiculous.

Jason stared at him in horror. "Wow," he said, and maybe it was a good thing that their respective phones vibrated. 

A text from Tim. "Wait, are you making that chili again? I would take leftovers." Dick sent back a text asking about Tim's next free day, promising chili if he came over. Maybe he should invite anyone who could come over for a movie or something? It would be nice to see everyone at once, in person, and Dick could freely admit that he was a little clingy in the weeks after exposure to fear toxin. 

Jason was frowning at his own phone. "I should head out," he said gruffly.

Dick nodded. "I'll tidy up here," he offered. 

Jason said, "You want some muffins?" which yes, absolutely, and they fell into finding storage bags and divvying up the leftover food. Jason screwed up his face when Dick ate a handful of leftover chocolate chips straight from the bag before sealing them and tossing them at Jason. Jason said, "Part of me feels like I should send the remaining vegetables home with you because you need them more than me and part of me knows they'll just die an ignominious death in your salad crisper."

"You definitely shouldn't give me the mushrooms," Dick said. "They'll just end up a pile of slime. But I'll take the tomato if you don't want it? I can make a gourmet grilled cheese sandwich."

Jason tossed him the tomato. "La di dah. Fine, if you have a plan for it. But I want to see photographic evidence that you didn't waste it or I am finding you on patrol and throwing a tomato at you."

Dick crossed his heart and smiled. Was Jason sincerely offended at the mere prospect of Dick wasting something he'd purchased or subtly angling for proof that Dick would be okay on his own? Could go either way. It meant that Dick was absolutely going to buy fresh bread and cheese on his way home, though, take a nap, and then make grilled cheese for lunch. That was a nice undemanding plan for the day, and then he'd spend the night getting to hang out at the Cass and Steph show, and that was all good.

There was a moment of stillness at the door when Jason left. One or both of them usually stomped off on a barb or a quip; they didn't have established protocols for saying a cordial goodbye. Dick almost said impulsively, "If you learned the fishing and I learned the cooking, the two of us should go sometime!" Because of course he'd had a brother before Tim or Damian he could have taken on a trek outdoors, and Jason might actually have liked that, and he'd missed that chance. 

Something held him back, maybe wisdom and maybe cowardice. This was the longest stretch they'd managed a civil conversation since Jason came back, and while he felt sure, after today, that he could trust Jason not to intentionally fuck up one of his childhood memories, sometimes things still got fucked up. But maybe someday?

Jason did a half-wave. Dick knew he himself was probably going to make things awkward but sometimes you had to go with earnest sincerity, and it wasn't like Jason wasn't about to leave anyway. He went for a half-hug and leaned up to press the briefest of kisses to the bruise on Jason's chin. "Thanks for breakfast, Jay," he said, stepping back, and tried to convey his thanks for everything else silently but clearly.

It obviously came through, because Jason sighed and said, "You. Utter. Goober." Jason leaned in and for a moment Dick thought he was going for a full-on hug--unprecedented for Jason, but welcome this morning--but instead Jason ruffled his hair and then dropped a peck on his forehead and said, "Take care of you, Dick," before stepping back and heading out the door.

The silence in the safe house after he left was a little hollow, but not bad. There wasn't much to straighten up. Dick checked the shelves and made notes on what needed to be restocked. He felt like he'd be able to sleep by the time he got home. Damian sent a text that was sharp on the surface and sweet underneath, clearly checking in on him. Dick snapped a picture of the muffins, ready to go by the door, in response. 

The phone rang not long after, right as he was about to head out. Bruce, awkwardly expressing concern. "I'm fine," Dick said, and tried to convey the truth of it. "Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual drill." 

Bruce was silent on the other end, and Dick perched on the kitchen table and waited to see if there was a response. Sometimes there was more, if you waited. He'd understood that when he was young and then forgotten for a long time. He thought of sitting side by side by Batman when he was a kid, leaning into the cape and feeling utter safety, and how Bruce had sometimes handed him a handful of nuts on a long stakeout "to keep up his strength." He let more tired tears prickle at his eyes without wiping them away. 

"Jason watched out for you," Bruce said finally.

"Yeah, B," Dick said gently. "He did a good job. He knows the drill, too." He thought, he ruffled my hair because that was how you modeled affection and comfort when we were kids, hair ruffles and the occasional top-of-head kiss. Usually not both at once, but that's the innovation of the next generation for you. He was kind, and he's building connections with us, and it's not my place to try to fix what's wrong between you but, yes, maybe it can get better.

"Good," Bruce said, adding abruptly, "I have to go to a meeting."

"I've got grocery shopping," Dick said. "See you when you get back."

"Of course. Goodbye." 

Disconnect. Dick said, "love you," out loud. He still said it in person to B sometimes, because he wanted it said out loud between them, but he'd mostly stopped saying it over the phone, where B didn't have a method other than words to say it back. Dick had started saying it out loud after they disconnected anyway, though, first with sarcastic bitterness and now easily. He just wanted it out there in the universe. 

"Love you," he said out loud again, though he wasn't sure to whom. His parents whose memory was sharp and clear today or the people from the circus whom he'd adored as a kid or maybe Alfie, buying Wonder Bread and Skippy and then a jar of kalamata olives for a grieving kid. All the Bats and Birds that circled Bruce's orbit, and Dick's own far-flung net of capes, the living and the dead. His first little brother, who'd kept him steady through the night. That little brother's mother, who'd peeled clementines to share sweetness with her son.

"Love you," he said once more for luck, and then went to take a nap and make himself a sandwich.

**Author's Note:**

> "It is in the shelter of each other that the people live." Irish proverb


End file.
